


he scares me so

by McEnchilada



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, First Kiss, Internal Conflict, M/M, Post-Canon, nothing to do with season 7 because I haven't seen it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:33:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: Sometimes, even the great Hercule Flambeau needs a partner in crime.





	he scares me so

**Author's Note:**

> it was too minor for me to tag but there's one (1) instance of a derogatory term for gay men

Just how the parish priest of St. Mary’s Church, Kembleford, had ended up playing lookout outside of a decidedly dodgy warehouse near the Liverpool docks, he couldn’t quite say. All he knew was that this sort of thing had become a good deal more commonplace since the world of crime had lost one of its brightest stars.

Brown shifted uneasily at the sound of something unseen rattling over cobblestones, somewhere in the dark. He’d been waiting a quarter of an hour already, tucked into an alleyway with orders to make himself heard if anyone approached with intent to enter the building. The sun had set hours ago, and the last of its warmth had long since leached from the bricks at his back. By rights he ought to be at home in his presbytery, fending off the chill of the spring evening with a cup of cocoa; not shivering in the shadows of what could prove to be a drug smugglers’ haven. Mrs. McCarthy would never let him hear the end of it, if she knew where he was.

Not that he would tell her the particulars, of course. She was already vocal in her opinion that Brown was too susceptible to a certain corrupting influence.

At that very moment, the corrupting influence in question dropped seemingly out of the sky and landed almost on top of him.

“I think I’m getting too old for that,” the ex-thief complained, straightening from his catlike crouch with a wince. He raised his eyes to meet Brown’s and, seeing his surprise, grinned. “Not expecting me?”

Brown fixed his expression to one of disapproval, such as he would give to a child caught plundering Mrs. McCarthy’s strawberry patch. Which was to say, tempered with amusement, but he couldn’t allow Flambeau to know it. “May I ask what was wrong with the door?”

“You know how I like to make an entrance.” Flambeau was holding a battered leather case, which he hadn’t gone into the warehouse with. He handed it to Brown, so that he had both hands free to adjust his Homburg to a jaunty angle. That done, and his silk scarf tweaked to sit symmetrically beneath the lapels of his jacket, he added, “That, and it seems the building has a nasty vermin infestation. Mickey and Harry Warren, exactly where I didn’t want them.”

Brown startled again, though Flambeau looked as relaxed as ever. “The Warrens? Here?” he asked, rather guiltily. He wasn’t much use as a lookout, then.

“Yes, but they didn’t come in through the doors you were watching. As I suspected, they have an entrance through the cellar. With that, and these shipment records, I’d say our work here is done.”

Father Brown tipped his head back to squint at the second story window Flambeau had exited through. The room within was still dark, and he hadn’t heard a thing from inside the building. “But if they didn’t catch you, why the window?”

Flambeau rolled his eyes, taking back the briefcase and shifting his weight from foot to foot impatiently. “I heard them downstairs, and thought I’d prefer to take my chances with the drop than with them. Now, shall we—”

He was interrupted by a sudden beam of illumination from above, quickly followed by near-simultaneous shouts of “The safe!” and “The window!” By the time Harry Warren stuck his head out the window to search for the intruder, Brown and Flambeau were on the main street, and gaining speed.

“I still don’t know,” Father Brown panted, as the sound of a third set of running footsteps joined theirs, “why you brought me along for this.”

Flambeau’s bark of laughter echoed along the abandoned street. “I thought you could do with the exercise,” he shot back.

Brown would have to concede that point. Flambeau might be too old to leap out of windows, but he was certainly young enough and fit enough to run circles around Brown. And Mickey Warren, younger and fitter than either of them, was gaining quickly.

A few yards ahead, Flambeau turned sharply to the left and onto a new street. Brown followed him, with all the grace of a newborn foal trying to run on ice, and stumbled and nearly lost his hat before he regained his balance. Flambeau was farther ahead now, a silhouette against the light spilling out of a noisy pub halfway up the street. The sight of other people came as a great relief; the Warrens would hopefully be somewhat less inclined to do violence in the presence of witnesses. Brown ignored the painful stitch in his side and kept running.

A number of men exited the pub just as Flambeau reached it, not yet very drunk but certainly very loud. He narrowly avoided colliding with any of them, but the near-collision didn’t go unnoticed or unremarked. Amid the confusion of the men’s protesting, looking for what Flambeau was running from, and then looking around to see where he’d gotten to, they missed him slipping down another sidestreet. Brown, his heart pounding with the fear of being left behind as well as the fear of the Warrens, charged right into the group, and managed to push into the narrow alley.

He needn’t have worried about abandonment; as soon as he was out of the light from the road, Flambeau’s hand fell on his shoulder. 

“Don’t lose me now,” warned Flambeau, as a third roar of confusion and curses indicated that Mickey had reached the jostled drinkers. Brown was too busy gasping for breath to manage a reply, but Flambeau wasn’t waiting for one. He grabbed Brown’s wrist and yanked him along.

The alley was dark, narrow, and littered with debris, but a sudden and too-close shout of “C’mere, you bastards!” helped spur Brown along despite his body’s complaints. They changed direction suddenly, again, onto an even narrower and darker alley. Flambeau had to have a cat’s ability to see in the dark to have spotted the entrance; Brown prayed that Mickey had missed it.

They emerged onto a wider street, more populated than the one they’d left. Along its length, more than one bar was spilling its patrons onto the roadway, and towards the nearest of these Flambeau pulled Father Brown. He braced himself for another charge through a crowd, but instead of barrelling through the middle of them, Flambeau pushed through to the door.

Inside, the room was hot and noisy. Evidently there’d been an argument about what to sing, as no fewer than four factions were attempting to sway the crowd through sheer volume. Amid the cacophony of drinking songs, their entrance went largely unremarked, as Flambeau led them down the hallway which held the bathrooms, as well as the back door. He shoved it open, and they emerged onto another shadowed backstreet.

Brown took a deep breath, ready to start running again, but instead of leaping back into the chase, Flambeau tugged him just a short way down the alley. With a forceful flick of his arm, he spun Brown so that his back was against the wall. Brown let out a quiet “oof!” as his back hit the bricks, but before he could get his breath back, he was cut off.

By Flambeau kissing him.

Alarmed, Brown jerked his head back, resulting in a painful collision with the wall and another involuntary sound. Flambeau’s hand came back immediately to cradle his smarting skull with gentle, soothing fingers.

“Shh,” he murmured, meeting Brown’s poleaxed gaze but revealing no explanation for his startling action. Brown heard something hit the ground—the briefcase—and then Flambeau snatched off both of their hats and tossed them into the shadows. He shrugged off his jacket, allowed it to crumple by his feet. Then his hands, inconceivably, touched Brown’s face and his waist, and he whispered, “Try to make it convincing,” before he pulled Brown into a kiss more passionate than the priest had even _dreamed_ of since he was a teenager.

When he had time to think on it later, Brown would reflect that even his teenage imagination had fallen short of the reality of Flambeau pressed against him, overwhelming his senses, Flambeau’s mouth on his melting not only his objections but his every articulate thought.

At least, for one brief, breathtaking moment, until the door slammed open just a few yards away from them.

Flambeau’s hands flexed hard, keeping him pinned in place even as their pursuers—drug smugglers, thieves, and murderers—burst into the alley. Browns hands flew to Flambeau’s shoulders, trying to shove him away before they were seen, but Flambeau just leaned in _more_ , an absolutely immovable weight against Brown’s heaving chest. His eyes remained closed, his expression intent but nearly blissful, as though he was so lost in the staged kiss that he hadn’t even heard, and didn’t notice Brown’s panic.

“Damn,” growled one of the Warrens; Brown didn’t know which it was. He’d squeezed his eyes shut again, bracing for a blow or possibly a thunderbolt. “How the hell did we lose them?”

“How the hell did they get in to begin with?” was his brother’s testy reply. “You didn’t lock the bloody safe!”

There was a sound of bodily contact, and stumbling footsteps. One of them had shoved the other, Brown guessed. “Of course I locked the safe! They must’ve gotten the combination from someone. Didn’t I tell you that Rhys was a rat?”

“We’ll see what he’s got to say for himself later.” From his tone, Rhys wouldn’t enjoy the conversation. “We have to clear out the warehouse, before the cops get their hands on the papers. I’ll get the lads together, you go tell Ralph Bailey we’ll need his place—wait. Who’s there?”

Flambeau had stilled while the Warrens were speaking, his lips hovering a hot centimeter from Brown’s. At the sharp question—Brown thought it came from Harry—he kissed Brown again, hard and open-mouthed, so that when he pulled away, almost languidly, it seemed they’d been interrupted while thoroughly engrossed in what they were doing.

“D’you mind?” he asked gruffly, disguising his voice with a passable scouse. He didn’t turn his head toward them, keeping both his and Brown’s faces hidden, but he watched them out of the corner of his eye. “We got here first.”

“Just a couple of poofs,” Mickey said derisively to his brother, making no effort to hide his disdain. Then, addressing Flambeau: “You seen a couple of blokes come out this way?”

“Been a bit busy, mate. Heard them, though. Went off that way.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder impatiently, then lowered his hand to rest low on Brown’s stomach; a bit of suggestive show, but Brown’s startled gasp had nothing to do with the act they were trying to sell.

“Thanks, mate. C’mon.”

Harry resisted his brother’s shove. He was looking at Brown through narrowed eyes. Brown tried not to stare back, or to avoid his gaze too guiltily. His hands on Flambeau’s shoulders tightened anxiously. “They heard us talking about Bailey, Mick,” he said ominously. “How do we know they won’t squeal on us?”

Mickey gave him another impatient push. “What are _they_ gonna do, go to the police? Not bloody likely.” He chuckled darkly. The implied threat was easy to see: he could make trouble for men necking in an alleyway as easily as they might make it for him, if not more easily.

Harry still seemed unconvinced, which Brown thought must have been why Flambeau shrugged carelessly, and resumed kissing Brown as though it was the only thing in the world he wanted to be doing. There was even more theatricality to it this time; tongue and a hint of teeth and a breathy moan that sent a horribly sinful shudder down Brown’s spine. Through the haze of fear, shame, and mortifying arousal, Brown tried to uphold his end of the performance. His touch was clumsy, but Flambeau was too consummate an actor to show that he minded. His body went utterly pliant under Brown’s hands.

The alley was empty. Brown couldn’t be sure how long it had been since the Warrens had left. Flambeau looked quite satisfied with himself when he stepped away.

“That went better than I expected,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Without so much as a glance at Brown’s stunned face, he bent to retrieve his things from the ground.

“Um.” Brown picked up his own hat and brushed it off, his movements as jerky as a malfunctioning film projection. “Um. If I may, why did you…”

He couldn’t finish the question. Physically couldn’t. He thought he would swallow his tongue before the words _why did you kiss me_ managed to trip off of it.

Flambeau was smirking, but that was just his default facial expression. “We couldn’t keep running, and I wasn’t sure how well you could hide. An illicit rendezvous behind a bar would be less remarkable than a priest lurking in an alley around here.”

“I see.” Brown wasn’t confident in his words at the best of times, too cautious and too slow to choose his words. He liked to be able to think before he spoke. In that moment, he couldn’t think at all, and so he couldn’t say a thing. His heart was still racing, from the chase but even more so from that terrible, intoxicating moment that he had chosen to forget his vows, his morals, and even the presence of an audience, and had let himself kiss Flambeau like none of those things had mattered. His skin blazed where Flambeau had touched him. His profaned hands were shaking.

“Being caught will work to my advantage, if we can catch them in the act of relocating their merchandise,” Flambeau mused, from a world that wasn’t on the brink of collapse. “Webb is bright enough, for a police inspector. He won’t waste time with questions if I tell him I’m in a hurry. Come, I’ll drop you at the train station. Mrs. McCarthy is probably waiting up for you.”

With that, he strode away, safe in the assumption that Brown would follow.

The priest exhaled a sigh of relief as soon as he stepped out of the alley. He noticed curious glances from passing pedestrians, but they couldn’t know what he’d done. Only Flambeau, himself, and God knew what vows he’d nearly forgotten, and even Flambeau didn’t seem to realize how very close it had come. Flambeau would never speak of it, he was sure, and Brown would go to Little Haydock in the morning to give his confession to the other Father Brown. He would do his ascribed penance, and be forgiven. All that would remain would be his own remorse, to ensure it never happened again.

The burden on his heart felt lighter at the mere thought of confession and absolution. Pushing away the memory of his desire, he remarked, lightly, “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I suggested that you consider retirement.”

Flambeau sent him a sly look beneath the brim of his hat. “Oh? I think being a private detective suits me.”

“I meant that you should find a _less_ dangerous line of work.”

“And be bored to death?”

“Better than shot to death.”

“I thought it was my immortal soul you were worried about, not my sinful mortal flesh.”

Brown’s cheeks flushed at the reminder of _sinful flesh_ , but happily, it was too dark for even Flambeau’s keen eyes to note it. He could blame it on the chill in the air. “I think you might commit _more_ crimes now. Breaking and entering, for a start.”

“Surely it cancels out, if I’m committing crimes against criminals? Isn’t that justice?”

“Vengeance is the Lord’s,” recited Brown, with tongue-in-cheek piety, “and He shall repay.”

They stopped at an intersection of two roads, beneath a streetlight. Under the orange glow, Brown could see the teasing glint in Flambeau’s eyes and the playful tilt of his grin, but he could have seen those as easily in his imagination. Certainly they’d had enough of these little mock arguments for him to be familiar with the expression. He was acutely familiar, too, with the warmth that their easy banter left beneath his skin, the golden contentment that filled him to the brim for hours afterwards.

Only now, with the very recent memory of a very different heat, this familiar interaction felt strange and dangerous. He wasn’t unused to feeling drawn to Flambeau’s presence, a wordless desire to move closer, perhaps even reach out, but it had always been easy enough to resist. Propriety demanded it, and his position, and Flambeau wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. 

(Surely, Flambeau wouldn’t have allowed it.)

In any case, that had been innocent; born of friendship and fascination, not...something forbidden. Now, seeing that smile, he couldn’t stop reminding himself how it had felt to have Flambeau’s chest against his, his broad shoulders beneath his hands, their lips pressed together as though him kissing Flambeau and Flambeau kissing him was not entirely impossible.

What if he could never forget how it had felt? Would he spend every one of their arguments reliving that moment of surrender, invalidating his own contrition by sinful, wishful reminiscence? How much would his weakness end up costing him?

While Brown agonized, Flambeau glanced at his wristwatch and cursed. “We’ll lose them if I’m late,” he said with a frown. “Can you find the train station from here?”

Shaken from his miserable reverie, Brown nodded. His actual confidence in his ability to navigate the Liverpudlian streets was none too good, but Flambeau was visibly eager to leap back into the pursuit. Brown felt a surge of fond pride in his friend—another sin to confess to in the morning. He’d known Flambeau’s brilliant mind and considerable skills could be put to better use than nicking paintings. He would perhaps never be a model citizen, but he was, at least, on his way to becoming a reformed character.

“Then I’m off. I’ll let you know how it goes.” Flambeau grinned, predatory and wonderful. Brown smiled back, helpless.

“Good luck. Be careful.”

Flambeau tipped his hat, leaving it roguishly askew. As he stepped backwards out of the lamppost’s circle of light, he bade, “A bientôt, Father.”

Then he raised his hand to his lips, kissed his fingertips, and flung out his arm towards Brown. He turned on his heel and was gone an instant later, as though it was no concern of his where his kiss happened to land.

Father Brown waited a long time, in that circle of light, before he finally departed, into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I had the thought "too bad there's no situation contrived enough for a fake dating fic for these two," & ended up here, because I think a fake-out make-out is the closest we can get
> 
> I took inspiration from the original Father Brown books in having Flambeau retire to become a detective, though none of the Chesterton stories I've read have this variety of excitement in them. I think the BBC Flambeau would enjoy being a noir P.I.
> 
> I'm telling myself I'll follow this up with a happy, guilt-free resolution but I have no idea whether I ever actually will. We'll see if inspiration strikes.
> 
> I took the title from "I Don't Know How to Love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar because I am an absolute parody of myself
> 
> I just realized now, three days after I posted this, how similar the ending is to one of my previous fics. WHOOPS.


End file.
